Thursday, August 19, 2010

Hibernation (...Fiction)

There is a moth trapped between the screen and the glass.
I am lying in my bed in a state of guilty indesion, wondering if I’m obligated to free the moth.
This is the problem with having no religion. Nothing tells me what is right or wrong except me. A Christian or a buddist- are they the ones who try not to step on ants?- would know immediately what to do about the moth. They would get out of bed, open the screen, coax the moth in the right direction without touching it so that the oil on their fingers didn’t take the dust off it’s wings because it needs the dust to fly, the moth would fly off and live the rest of its one week life- or are moths the insects that can live for years and hibernate in the winter like bears in caves with stomachs full of blueberries?

The window is behind my head but the streetlight outside shines past the moth and there are fluttering moth wing shadows on my wall. The moth’s shadow is looking tired.

When I was eight my mother explained to me about hibernation and since then it’s been a fantasy of mine. I wish humans were allowed to partake. I wish our bodies could store food for months so we didn’t need to ever leave to make money to buy food to eat.
For the winter months the world would just stop living and no one would collect the rent or call you for any reason because everyone was asleep under their floorboards like pot bellied vampires. Also we’d probably grow more body hair.

When I was eight my mother had a rule about jungle gyms. Once I asked her to pick me up so that I could reach the monkey bars and she said: if you’re not capable of doing it yourself than you’re not ready to do it. I always thought it was a height thing, like taller people had a shorter distance to fall.

The moth has stopped moving. It looked tired already this morning before I left for work and when I came home it was still fluttering.
Since I assume that it doesn’t really know I’m here, I don’t think it stopped fluttering all day and then began again when I returned, I cant help assuming that it was fluttering all day. It must be tired.

If it can’t get out on its own than its not ready to get out. I decide.
I wonder why this makes sense… is there something out there in the city that I am protecting the moth from by keeping it here? I wish I could remember if moths are the ones who live for weeks or years- then I could decide with more authority weather to let it go off and live dangerously for its last days, or if it should take time to pause, make plans.
Better play it safe.

Monday, August 16, 2010


i have so much money.
well... not so much but more than ive ever had which isnt that much because ive never had any.

i want so many things but i cant buy them.
i still want to steal them for no money even though theres nothing other than them that i want
and i have money and if i spent it on these things that i want i would have them
and there arnt other things that i want more so why not spend all my money
and not have any money left but have the things i want...

its so hard to spend money.
i wish i had more money.
i wish i have all the money.

i wish when i tried on clothing i could just buy it if it looked good and wear it if i wanted to and give it away if i didnt want to wear it but just have more and more money so clothing would just flow through my life like... tissues... use once and use again only if... it was phenominal the last time... well... maybe not a tissue..

but i wish i could have everything i thought i needed even if i wasnt sure i really needed it.
and then i would have it and use it and not worry that maybe i would never use it...
i want a projector.
if i bought it i would have it and use it.
if i bought it and didnt use it i would worry that i had wasted my money and then i would return it.
if i had enormous amounts of incoming money i would just let the projector be used or unused.

i want an iphone.
i want a house.
i want to cut open the walls of my room and put shelves in the studs and have shelves and put lots of collections on the shelves.
i want to paint my dresser white.
i want to strip the paint on my iron bed.
i want to paint the floors white with deck paint.

Monday, August 9, 2010



on my wall

near my head

near my pillow

hiding behind a paper that is tacked to my wall.

now its gone...

but forever in my memory

haunting my dreams

crawling across my toes

with its brothers.

Sunday, August 8, 2010

watching my hair grow...







August 8th

Saturday, August 7, 2010

All alone

Home alone and I get dressed eight times and then put on eye liner.
then i throw my clothes on the floor and eat pieces of cheese in the bath
and write strange things on wet paper using the bathtub edge as a desk.

The sound of running water drowns out "Paul Simon" who I turned up all the way and listened to while I destroyed an avocado
while trying to slice it and spread it onto toast.
I heated up some water and poured sugar into a tea cup and then poured the sugar back into its jar and ignored the hot water and drank a juice box instead.

Wednesday, August 4, 2010


An eighteen year old who will very soon be one of The Shins, The Beatles, The New Pornographers, Passion Pit even... Animal Collective, Neutral Milk Hotel... the boy comes into poetry class late,
he avoids the teacher's eye as he slides into the desk/chair in the corner in the front near the door.
He holds a folded piece of printer paper and a hes wearing only a sweatshirt even though its raining outside
his shoulders are wet and his hair is wet.
He turns to stare intentently at the girl whos rhyming love poem was interrupted when the boy banged through the heavy door
and squeaked across the floor on his wet sneakers.
The girl looses her place, looks quickly at the teacher who nods calmly
looks quickly at the boy who stares...
she reads the rest of her poem.
the teacher tells her something about a poem being like a story board
'you should be able to draw an illustration in a box next to each line.'

Of course the teacher calls on the boy next, to put him on the spot, because he was late.
The boy unfolds his paper and reads out the lyrics of one of his songs, without a chorus, without repeats... it sounds just like a poem and none of us have ever heard it before.
The images are like fresh photographs taken with a camera youve never heard of that creates a kind of triangle shaped image youve never seen before... there is a new color in the spectrum.
'I jumped across three or four beds into your arms." says the boy "what a beautiful face i have found in this place that is circling all round the sun."

...what i mean is: i like to imagine them and how their minds match the minds of the boys at the community colleges who take 8am poetry classes and have lots to say
but arrive late.